


Echoes

by weakzen



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Musical Instruments, Prompt Fill, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen
Summary: Mason doesn't play the sax.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, " _Let N serenade you on the violin or convince M to play you a song on the saxophone?_ "

At some point, the auditorium sat proud, tall, and full of life, but now it slumps over like a rotting carcass picked half-clean.

Water damage streaks down the high walls, cleaving paths through the paint and sound panels, ceiling to floor, and near the bottom, where both of those haven't peeled away in long, crackling strips or simply fallen to the ground, there's graffiti. A scrawling expanse of interlocking color and twisting line, layers of jumbled chaos occasionally interrupted by bursts of artistic order and collapsed ceiling beams. Beneath that even further, empty beer cans and cigarette butts cover the moldering carpets, along with a multitude of other random garbage and a general layer of musty grime that burns acrid at the back of my throat with every breath.

And all of it—everything in here, every choking mote of dust, every piece of trash and row of decomposing seats and fallen light fixture, every millimeter of this filthy, decrepit, cavernous fucking room, from its sloping floor to its broken roof and the patches of starlight peeking through—all of it trembles and aches beneath the weight of his echoing notes.

So do I, as I walk slowly forward, down the center aisle toward the stage, boots crunching softly over splintered wood and shattered ceiling panels, Volt bumping against my thigh with each step, and each step coming heavier and heavier as I approach.

My flashlight swings heavy in my grip too, but it's turned off. Unnecessary, at the moment.

Somehow, electricity still pulses through this husk of a high school, providing just enough intermittent lighting—strategically placed and flickering, of course—to make the corridors outside as creepy as possible. In here, it just powers the lights above the stage. Which is creepy in its own way, I suppose, an echo of earlier times in this space, like if I squint hard enough to hide the ruin, I can see into the past and how everything used to be.

Maybe that's why he initially climbed up on that stage, pulled forward. Maybe that's when he spotted the saxophone too, picked it up.

Then where, for reasons I can't even begin to guess at, he decided to play it as well.

And he does. Play it well.

Which doesn't surprise me so much as it makes me curious—and worried.

I'm no musician, but I can tell by sound the instrument has known better days. He makes it work, though. Somehow.

Even if some of the notes come at odd, uncomfortable angles.

There's still a mournful beauty to it.

And I don't know if it's because of that, or because he's the one playing, or because we're in this particular place, this dead building with its stifling air and all these empty, torn seats and the ghosts of memory still lurking here, but…

My chest is so tight. And I just feel so fucking sad.

Maybe it's because of the song itself.

The long and low notes wavering into loneliness. The way they twine and weave together into this visceral, haunting melancholy that just… digs into my heart and _aches_. It's almost overwhelming, the sheer, raw emotion carried on his melody, the honesty too, coming out of that shitty fucking sax to peel me open in layers, burrowing even deeper until it whispers directly into my soul, truths that could never be shared any other way or expressed in words at all because there simply isn't a language vast enough to hold them and everything they have to say.

It's hard to breathe. And it hurts, hearing it now, feeling the weight of everything spoken by this bluesy music, but I swipe my jacket sleeve across my eyes and keep going anyway.

A few moments later, the edge of the stage looms above me, almost a meter over my head. It's no concern. I tuck the flashlight into my belt loop and clear it easily enough, one hard jump later before I'm pulling myself up and into the bright lights.

The floorboards sink slightly beneath my feet when I take a few steps toward him but, if they creak, I don't hear it.

Mason doesn't seem to, either.

He plays with his back turned almost entirely to the audience, though he's still angled enough for me to catch his long fingers working the keys. Pressing and holding and releasing, tendons in his hand shifting with the rise and fall of his shoulders, the quick inhales of breath and the impossibly slow, meandering exhales. His lips and cheeks probably move in tandem as well, but I can't see through the curtain of hair that hides his face and expression.

My arms fold and nestle, tight and comforting against my body. I don't know how long I stand there watching, heavy with that ache. Time passes in measures of note and the subtle movements of his body. The world recedes too, until there's nothing but this stage surrounded by darkness and rotting velvet, nothing but this scene unfolding atop it and whatever uncertain roles we're both playing here.

Maybe mine is just to listen.

So I do.

Trembling, knotted, heart in my throat and aching with something I can't describe and only barely understand, I listen, until his performance ends and that final note stretches out, fades, and disappears into deafening silence. Until all that remains in this void is the faint buzz of hot lights, distant dripping.

And us.

If he hadn't detected me on approach, then I know he's aware of my presence now. I know he can feel me and the weight of my gaze and all of my unspoken questions.

But he doesn't turn around.

He doesn't move.

And if there's a line I'm supposed to say here, I never received the script for it.

My brow furrows deeper—I take a shallow breath and improvise anyway.

"I didn't know you played, sunshine."

The words come out quiet and thick, seeming to catch in the air, even as they echo faintly.

His fingers tighten on the instrument for a moment.

"I don't."

Then he rips the strap over his shoulder and flings the sax hard into the darkness backstage.

It smashes against something with a harsh clang that makes me flinch as it stabs into my ears. The sound echoes sharply through the auditorium and he turns with it, even sharper, to stalk toward the edge of the stage. As he passes, I reach out to touch his chest and—

Mason catches my wrist before I make contact, but he stops anyway.

He doesn't look at me, though. Only glares straight ahead, into a distance deeper and darker than just the auditorium. And as he continues to gently hold me in his grasp, I can't help but wonder what he's seeing out there beyond the ruin.

What glimpse of the past he caught when he squinted.

His gaze softens, and his hand squeezes slightly in answer.

He doesn't want to talk about it. Not now, anyway.

My eyes fall half-shut, ache twisting just a little deeper as I bite my lip and brush my fingertips against his chest. He allows it, fingers shifting to trace over my knuckles, thumb rolling softly around my palm too. And he doesn't resist when I slide forward to spread my hand over his heart, just moves his thumb out of the way before he rests his touch on top of mine.

Then he sighs, and the tension falls from his shoulders.

From mine as well, as we close our eyes.

I don't know how long we stand there like that, either. Time passes in measures of heartbeat and the small strokes of his fingers. The world recedes even further, until the stage disappears too, until there's nothing left but us and all of the things we're speaking to each other that could never be shared any other way or expressed in words at all.

Because there simply isn't a language vast enough to describe how much I love him.

Or how much he loves me.

But we've never needed one when we have _this_.

I make a soft noise of reassurance and rub his chest.

Mason sighs again, then curls his hand around mine and brings it to his mouth. He drags my fingers against his lips, breath teasing warm over my skin before he starts pressing wet kisses to my knuckles.

“There's nothing here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, glancing to me. “We should regroup with the others.”

I crack a faint grin. “Aw, already? Just when I was getting used to breathing in the asbestos.”

He snorts, smile spreading across his face even as he nips me. I hiss out a chuckle, then press my fingers over his mouth.

“Guess I better get you out of here quickly then,” he mumbles through them—right before he sucks a couple into his mouth.

Of course.

I inhale sharply, encased in that soft, wet heat. Then exhale a shuddering breath. His tongue slides around my fingers, between them, licking rhythmic strokes in time with the hard suction of his mouth. Heat begins to pool and throb elsewhere in my body, only stoking the desire in his eyes. Mason smirks around me, and his other hand comes up to grab my ass and pull me into him.

“Hm. First the sax—” I gasp slightly, eyes closing momentarily as he slides me fully inside “—now my fingers.” I bite my lip, moan catching low in my throat while I smirk back. “What else you gonna put in your mouth tonight?"

He slides me out with a lewd pop, then presses a lingering kiss to my fingertips.

“You'll find out soon enough.”

Dark amusement glitters in his eyes, familiar amusement, paired with sharpened canines.

Indicative of incoming vampire bullshit.

Chuckling, I grab the flashlight to make sure it doesn't fall. “Think the far left one looked biggest.”

His smirk widens.

Mason curls his hand around the back of my head and pulls me into a brief kiss, then a prolonged kiss, an eager kiss, his movements edged with neediness, with affection, appreciation.

And gratitude.

When he finally pulls back, I'm dazed, grinning, and slightly breathless—which is the only reason why I yelp as he scoops me up.

That, and the fact I'm settled firmly in his arms rather than my usual spot slung over his shoulder.

He doesn't give me time to question it, just leaps off the stage and speeds into the darkness, arms wrapped tightly around me while I clutch at his neck, and then we're rocketing upward, bursting through the hole in the roof, flying high into the crisp night air.

We hang for a long moment, suspended in moonlight, building shrinking below, city lights glittering in the distance, hair floating and stomachs doing that slow, anticipatory flip before the drop.

I smile into his skin, and call him a show off.

He holds me securely against him as we start to fall, answering smile on his lips.

One that tells me I like it.


End file.
